


Sewed Up My Heart With Threads Of Neon Blue (But Then They Threaded Your Mouth Shut)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Series: Xenoblade Ship Week 2020 [5]
Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: A little comfort, A lot of Hurt, Angst, Ether, F/M, Near Death Experiences, Recovery, Slight Hurt/Comfort, blade racism, indol being dodgy again, questionable medical practices, spoilers for main-game, what a surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:26:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: She feels the space, the emptiness. A void where something has been taken from her, something that cannot be replaced.It was a necessity, there was no other way; or so she had been told.Maybe that is true, maybe this had to have happened, but she still can't help but feel like here; in these white-washed walls, her voice cannot be heard. No matter how loud she shouts, she will be ignored.Written for Xenoblade Ship Week 2020.Prompt: Ether/Accident
Relationships: Zeke von Genbu/Saika | Pandoria
Series: Xenoblade Ship Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781698
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	Sewed Up My Heart With Threads Of Neon Blue (But Then They Threaded Your Mouth Shut)

**Author's Note:**

> god im back with more panzeke angst bc its my brand and i love these two very very much
> 
> this one is super pretentious just a warning, i went full on into,,,, my writing style so its,,,,, how many metaphors can we fit into one fic, basically. hope yall enjoy xx

Pandoria awakens to the sound of birdsong. Only, it does not sound like birdsong, not to her. The notes twang, the twittering light and vapid in a way that offered no comfort. Not light like the clouds in the sky, light and fluffy and weightless as they drifted by, not light like the rays of the sun; warm and golden and beautiful. No, this was a light like the tissue paper that tears; the sort that - when it rains - grows heavier and heavier until it is nothing but solid mush that falls apart in the palms of her hands. She grips it, squeezes it, anything to try and hold the pieces together, but the paper tears and the water seeps through and it turns to dull sludge that escapes her grasp like starlight on cloudy evenings. 

That is the lightness of the birdsong. For although the day outside is clear and sunny, misfortune rains from far above and the birds sing only of forgery. 

The birds sing their dead, half-written song and Pandoria lets those notes swell within her. That twang of music that clamours at the hollowness in her chest, the lightness that tries to seep in the shadows of what had once been. It slithers inside, a serpent with fangs dripping with venom. Her chest flutters and the thud of a heartbeat, something which she has never had, thrums through her.

Not properly, though. There is no blood in her chest, no crimson in her veins. The red fire of rose petals that spills and falls, the red she had held in her hands, as she pushed on his chest, spilling out between her fingertips staining her gloves in unwashable scars-

The heartbeat in her chest is not hers. It comes from far away, from a different place. A different world to her own.

It reminds her of a child's game. Of tin cans tied to string, pulled taught and tight until the edges began to fray. The vibrations passed down in laughing voices, the coolness of metal held against your ear. Just like that, she can feel it, hear it. The voices of another, from yonder it runs through her. And just like the cans, the voice is cold, blurred at the edges where the string begins to snap. Echoing in that metal can until it too becomes fake, harsh and wrong and cold like ice and snow, like the birdsong that isn't right. The coolness, the coldness, the ice that will not melt. Endless hills rolling with snow, the torrent of a blizzard, of fat snowflakes tumbling from a grey sky, the world trapped in a white that holds nothing but shadow' of a coldness that never leaves. Memories that are not her own intertwine. A face she recognises all too well, and with her spark of hatred comes something unfamiliar, a dash of uncertainty. Self-loathing claws at her chest, swallows up the half-filled emptiness that lays bare. Emotions that are not her own swallow her whole.

She feels the heat of blood rushing through her, of redness she can never call her own. She is used to blue, to the coolness of ether, the vapid magic in her chest. Where that blue had once flown like the ebb of the ocean, now lay the pounding of blood. 

Fire and water, mixed together, swirling in her chest. Half of her burns, half of her freezes. She breathes and she can feel _him_ , with her. 

Her hands, free of her gloves, rise to her exposed chest. She traces the jagged edges of her core crystal, feels the emptiness of the space where half of it had once rested, the shadow that lingers. In phantom pain, her chest heaves with half-ragged breaths, with panic that rises.

She has not seen Zeke since the accident. Not since she woke up with half of her missing and a beat in her head that is not hers. The drums of heartbeat, of life she does not hold infesting the very threads of her thoughts, an invasion of something she did not allow. 

She does not want to see him. She does not know if she can, not now, yet she knows she must.

It is not his fault, but this has changed everything. 

For, although their lives have now become bound - intertwined in a way that they never were before, there is something else that has shifted. For life and death have become one of a whole within them, a reliance sparked - where one lives, so does the other. When one falls, the other one will be dragged down with them. 

She does not mind that, not really. It is Zeke, it has _always_ been Zeke, and her memories with him have _always_ been more important than an eternal life. 

But _this,_ the emptiness in her chest and the warmth of red-sick blood in her veins, with it a wall has been built. A divide that had never been there, not before.

For Pandoria is not a fool. She is aware of the divides, the difference in status. Blade and Driver, _Person and tool._ Never, had she felt such a thing with Zeke, but she would have been _blind_ to have been unaware of such things. Of her 'value', of the differences between them both. Of ownership and power; for she is - at her core - considered a weapon. A means to an end, a force which can be used to _gain._

A transaction.

Her and Zeke had seen it in their travels. The seedy black market, for although such distribution of core crystals was discouraged, that didn't stop it from happening. The buying and selling of wares, of _blades,_ of a life deemed less important. As if she, others like her, were a commodity. An accessory for those who could afford it, a tool used for a play of power or a bid of self-importance. Like a new necklace, a new sword, a shiny little prize to hang off the arm of their driver. To obey every command, to blindly follow every whim. 

They had never stayed long in those places, never longer than they had to, but Pandoria had always wondered. Wondered if, at one point, she had been one of those core crystals; shipped from hand to hand for a sack of gold and a deal. _That could have been her, one day._

Not now, though. 

For never again will she return to her core crystal, never again will she have her memories be wiped clean, her mind and body redrawn to a blank slate in which she will be imprinted on. She cannot return to what is broken, she cannot return to a home that no longer exists.

And she never even had a choice. 

For, truly, she does not mind that her 'eternal' life has been cut short; for - in her mind - it was never truly _eternal_ anyway. Her body may be reforged but her mind is lost forever, her memories disappear like the stars under blinding sunlight. It does not bother her that this life will be her last.

What _does_ bother her is that she has been changed, a part of her has been forever removed and she was never even asked. Part of her mind tells her that she couldn't have a choice, she wasn't conscious and - had Indol not gone through with the operation - Zeke would undoubtedly be dead. 

Another part of her fights that train of thought. Another part of her, a louder part of her, remembers those cold, dead eyes of Amalthus. Remembers the cruelty, the _power_ that he had held over her. She sees the way that people look at her here. Sees those half-gazes, those demanding stares. She feels less important here, less valuable. She feels her worth and she knows that, here, it is _nothing._

She is startled out of her thoughts with the creaking of a door. One of the medics strolls in, their face half-hidden by a mask, only the blacks of their eyes visible. 

"The prince is awake," they say. Pandoria cannot place the timbre of their voice - they all sound the same here, all carry the same droning lilt, the accent of their words dull and lifeless as if they have never once thought for themselves. "He wants to see you." 

Pandoria gulps, chews on her lower lip. She almost says no, but before she can even collect her thoughts there is a cool hand on her wrist. It pulls her upwards, tugs her behind the nurse as she dutifully follows.

Her stomach sinks. _He wants,_ she thinks. With no small amount of bitterness, she realises that it is the Driver who dictates what happens, and the Blade who follows. 

She does not miss how, as they get further and further away from her own room, the white-pillared walls of Indol grow finer and finer. From plain to fantastic, Pandoria feels like a pauper making her way to the King's chambers. 

Her footsteps echo loud down the hall. Where her guide is silent, as if walking on the clouds themselves, her own steps are heavy and clumsy. She does not fit in here. Purple and seafoam green, like the aurora in night sky, a break in the endless whites of stars. The moon shines down on her, cold light, and she feels her imperfections laid bare.

Her steps falter and that cool hand returns around her wrist, a half-hidden sigh from the nurse's lips spurs her onwards. Like a lost puppy, she follows.

She had never followed Zeke before. Never, had she been behind, trailing after. She had never been an addition. They had always walked side by side, together as a unit, one and the other.

But here, things are different.

The emptiness in her chest grows. The ether that had once filled the hollowness in her chest with crumpled tissue paper, aquamarine like the brightest of days, has been soaked in crimson blood. It has melted away, turned to mush from within and with it she feels dragged down. Weights on her body, holding, confining. 

There is a cavern in her body, a piece of her that has been taken away. The innermost parts of herself, the ether-glow that holds the code to her very being, has been split in half and given to another. 

It is her life sustaining his, but not here. To the Indoline, it has never been _her_ life. This, her operation, was simply a blade meeting their function. To them, she has given nothing away; she has merely been _used_ like the tool that she is. 

Blades make their Driver's stronger. _That is her function_.

And she knows that Zeke does not think like that, she knows that he has _never_ thought like that, but right now that does not matter. What matters is that she has been irrevocably changed; that she can _never_ return to the way she once was, and she was changed because she is deemed less important, less valuable. There is a mark, a scar on her chest that is testament to her worth against Zeke's. Living proof that will never fade that shows how the world sees them - shows that it is Driver first and Blade second. It is a mark, a scar, that runs much deeper than crystal and skin. It burns in her mind, in her memories.

She cannot even die to erase this pit, this feeling that swirls from deep within. This curse will follow her, this void in her chest will not leave. She kind of wants to cry. She wants to electrocute the nurse in front of her, set fire and thunder to the white marble of indoline, to melt away the bleached walls and pristine floors, to destroy the coldness that infests this place in wind that chokes and breath that never comes. 

But then they are there. In front of the room that must hold Zeke, her closest companion who she has not seen since the accident.

She can still feel his blood on her fingers, the wound she had pressed down as if her fingers alone could meld flesh and bone and blood into smooth skin once more. She feels that blood inside her now, mixing with her ether. Warm and sticky and metallic on her tongue, in her chest, pumping around in the heart that she does not have. (For her crystal was her heart. And that had been split in half, taken from her.) 

All that lays between him and her is that door, heavy wood painted white, (for what is not white amongst these 'holy' walls) with the faux of gilded gold decorating the dips and rivets of wood that rots from within. 

The nurse knocks (she had not knocked on Pandoria's door) and, although muffled, it is unmistakably Zeke who responds with a shaky 'come in'.

The door creaks open and Pandoria is pushed inside.

And there he is.

He lies on his back, sprawled out on white bedsheets. "Zeke!" Pandoria cries, doubts momentarily forgotten as she rushes to his side.

For the briefest of moments, as Zeke's pallid face breaks out into a smile, the emptiness in her chest vanishes. Instead, it is replaced by a foreign sense of happiness; a joy that is not her own yet it warms her from the inside out, fireworks of colour exploding in the void-space where her crystal had once been whole.

The feeling vanishes, however, as she draws nearer and Zeke's eyes flick down to her chest, gaze upon the shattered remains of her crystal. 

The emptiness returns but Pandoria tries desperately to push it away, a gesture that serves as much use as a pair of hands pushing against the tide of the cloud sea, but she tries to focus on the fact that Zeke is _here,_ still alive, still breathing.

He is pale, paler than usual. The healthy tan that he had once sported, the proof of much time spent outdoors and even more time spent refusing to wear a shirt ('The belts are _practical,_ Pandoria. And, I might add, _Stylish'_ ) has vanished into milky skin - the sort of shade that goes beyond pale and treads into _sickly._ There are deep shadows under his eyes, black bags that bruise purple. He looks tired beyond his years, as though his time unconscious has been filled with unrest - as though he has been unable to relax, the shadows of thoughts clinging from the windows of his soul, the stormcloud eyes carrying a weariness that Pandoria wishes she could clear with a crash of thunder and a flash of lightning.

She looks over him, sees the sunset bruises that have not yet healed, the puckering of fresh scars - ones she has spent her entire life tracing with the tips of her fingers, and her eyes flicker down to his chest.

It's bandaged up, red oozing at the very edges of the gauze, but she can see the raise of the fabric, the slight bump that hides underneath. When she focuses on it, feels her own swell of ether, pushes forwards with a power she has always known, she can see the whisper of blue glow expelling from his chest. 

That is where the rest of her core crystal lies. A piece of her, sewn into his chest. A piece of her, resting right where his own heart lies. 

He looks at her, face sombre, and she can feel his apology before he even opens his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Pandoria." He says, voice lack of pomp and pretence. There is no act, no joke, no laughter. He looks at her, looks at what remains of her core crystal, and Pandoria sees it all. She _feels_ it all.

_I'm sorry it had to be this way,_ he does not say. _I'm sorry things are different._

But she hears it, underneath it all. It lingers and she can feel such words swirling in her chest, in that void-space that had since been left empty.

As she gazes at Zeke, eyes roaming the scarred expanse of her chest, there is an urge that thrums within her. An animalistic urge, one she has never felt before. An urge from deep within, as though she has lost control of her own body, a puppet on a string - tethered and lost. _Scratch it out,_ a voice says, her eyes focusing on the ether glow lingering underneath the gauze. She clenches her fists, once, twice, three times. Digs her nails into her palms, bites her lip, clenches her teeth until her jaw aches.

And then she looks up.

Looks up at Zeke, the boy-turned-man who she had spent almost every waking moment of her life with. The one who had built snowmen with her on the Genbu drifts, who had snuck out of Theosoir in the darkest depths of the night, slinked past the guards and ran out into the snowstorms. The boy who had tilted his head to the sky to taste the falling snow, who had lobbed a snowball at her head because he thought it would have been funny. (It wasn't. But it _was_ funny when she stuffed snow down the back of his coat) She thinks of their memories, of the lives they have forged side by side, where they have been and what they have done.

They were exiled together, cast adrift in a world they had been forbidden to enter, kicked out by Zeke's own father. They had, essentially, been sent to their deaths; but they had pulled through.

They had carried on living, carried on surviving. Seen the new day with a smile. From titan to titan they had travelled, lived amongst the seedy-underbelly of Argentum, seen corruption bought with a sum of gold and a favour repaid. They had travelled between Mor Ardain and Uraya, seen the conflict that brewed between the two, seen how their wars were tearing them both apart at the seams.

They had seen it all, together. Side by side. 

And then Zeke had almost died. 

Part of her is angry, part of her is furious, but she cannot let such thoughts pull her away, take her adrift from what truly matters. They have all the time in the world to think about what _they_ have done, what the Indolines have done to their bodies and what they have proven with their silence, their dismission of all those they deem lesser to them. 

But Zeke is alive, he is _here_. Still sickly, still pale, but he is fighting. He will survive. 

And when she smiles at Zeke, a tired sort of smile, but she knows it meets her eyes for there is light that swirls in her chest, he smiles back.

She feels it. Feels the joy in her heart, feels it thrum between that beat that is not her own.

There is a connection, she realises, and Zeke must realise it too for his own eyes grow wide. There is a shared bond that they never had before, for a part of Pandoria's most inner self now lives within Zeke. They have become joined with blue threads of light, a bond that runs much deeper than blade and driver. 

For now, it does not matter what Indol is doing. _Nothing_ matters. Not the war, not the anger or pain or suffering. _None_ of it matters, not right now.

Perhaps later, when Zeke is fully healed, they will return to the tumultuous waves of the world, find themselves once more scrounging for food and sleeping rough, but she does not think of that. She does not _care_.

Instead, she takes Zeke's hand in her own, feels the beat of his pulse against her fingertips, and the gap in her chest begins to close.

It is not perfect, it is not _right,_ and there will be conversations to have, things the two of them must talk about, must think about. But right now, none of that matters.

They sit there, together, and when the nurse returns and demands that Pandoria leaves, she refuses. 


End file.
